Breakfast debate with Phil this morning over the taste of Saturn’s rings. I say they taste like dust. He says cocoa. Who’s to say who’s right and who’s wrong? Neither one of us is an astronaut. (Though I seriously doubt they taste like cocoa. Honestly. Malt balls maybe but not straight cocoa. That’s preposterous.)
It’s shaping up to be a beautiful day and the whole house seems to be infected with a case of the sillies. I’ve managed to soothe the flivvervaat father and babies by playing Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young on repeat in the kitchen. With the volume kept low, it’s rather comforting, actually. Though I understand that when flivvervaats hit the week-old mark, they start testing out their voices by mimicking the sounds they hear around them.
Which explains why sometimes it sounds like there are 300 police sirens towards the south end of Prospect Park.
Happy Friday, my fellow oddlings. Do something small yet extraordinary today and then tell me about it, won’t you?
